


Anamnesis

by pxncey



Category: Comics Industry RPF, Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys (Album), My Chemical Romance
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-22
Updated: 2015-12-22
Packaged: 2018-05-08 07:31:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5488850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pxncey/pseuds/pxncey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Korse strives for blissful monotony as much as the next Battery man, but there's always been something that's drawn him to this fragile, bitter little killjoy, right from the beginning when he was a boy--before he was a zonerunner, before he was part of the revolution. Party flicks his strawberry red hair back, and Korse wants to dip his fingers into it, pull on the strands and see if Party moans like he used to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anamnesis

Korse is watching Party when he wakes up. It's a warm, knowing gaze, the lines of his face easy and almost friendly, and Party thinks that the deep fondness of it makes it sicklier than cruelness ever could. His unprecedented attraction to Party through the years has always been the thing about Korse that erred him the most—although a sickly part of him he doesn’t care to acknowledge craves the man’s attention.

"Haven't seen you here in some time," Korse muses. "I've missed having you around." Korse strives for blissful monotony as much as the next Battery man, but there's always been something that's drawn him to this fragile, bitter little killjoy, right from the beginning when he was a boy—before he was a zonerunner, before he was part of the revolution. Party flicks his strawberry red hair back, and Korse wants to dip his fingers into it, pull on the strands and see if Party moans like he used to. He resists. That's for later, he reminds himself.

"And for what do I owe you the pleasure this time?" Party asks, and quirks an eyebrow, cocky as ever.

Korse huffs out a cold laugh. "You walked right into the complex, my dear. We can hardly be held responsible for stealing you away when you were practically parading yourself about to us."

Party sneers and kicks in his chair; his ankles and wrists are bound, but that hardly deters him. Korse's thin lips stretch into a sardonic smile. He's always... not  _admired,_ as such, but  _appreciated_  the young boy's pluck and unwavering confidence, although it often makes torture negotiations rather difficult. Korse could never tell what was really breaking him—not until recently.

He wants to build up to it. He knows Party will feel it more that way, and he enjoys Party's wretched displays of emotion more than any amount of blind confidence the boy could ever give off.

\----

Party is blindfolded. He can see a little sliver of light at the bottom of the swatch of fabric over his eye: Korse's feet, the hems of his grey slacks. He steps closer; Party leans back. Korse positions himself at arm's length from Party, and fists his hand in the boy's hair, dragging his head forwards. "Such a pretty boy," Korse croons. "I must admit, I can't wait to see your gorgeous little face all messed up." He smiles, and mourns the fact that Party won't be able to see what he's going to do to him.

Party blanks out the warmth that spreads through him when Korse runs his fingers down the back of his neck. He focuses on staring at the tips of Korse's shoes. He focuses on the cold friction of the bindings around his wrists. It's all he can do when Korse presses his mouth to his neck and kisses his throat, and Party can feel his breath on his skin, warm and close. And then there's something else on Party's neck, cold, sharp, and he's smiling again. That's more like it.

Korse smiles too. This isn't torture. He just likes the way Party's mouth twists when he's in pain. He isn't striving to get any information out of the kid; he's just been given an opportunity, and he's having his way. He drags the blade across Party’s throat, and watches as Party writhes and hisses—but the smile stays on Party’s face. He’s relishing the pain. Korse presses deeper, and moves his wrist more sharply, carving into a tendon and finally seeing Party crack: a gasp tears from the boy’s throat, and he whines harshly when Korse gleefully presses down on the mark he’s made.

The shaft of light at the bottom of the blindfold starts to melt, and Party thinks he's going to pass out from the pain. While a small, weak part of him wishes that he could just die right now, the majority of his brain wants to savour every second of it, and force himself through the experience just to prove that he can. He wants to remember Korse as he is, not as he was. Not as the man who took care of him when his mother abandoned him in the city. Not the man who reunited him with his brother. When Party is running the zones again, he wants to be able to see Korse as the cold, cruel bastard he is now—not the man that let him free.

\----

Korse never fucks Party face to face, it's always from behind—but this time, before Party even has a chance to get to his knees Korse is laying him out on his back, and spreading his legs apart. It isn't like Party is going to fight at all. This way he can look into Korse's face, and although seeing him this way tears him up, it's in a sort of good way.  A part of him likes the way it hurts, likes the way it burns and aches inside him. It needs to be different from before. Korse was so gentle before. It has to be like this.

Party tastes like dust and desert when Korse kisses him, and it's harsh and biting, and Party arches into it. Korse doesn't even get his hand on Party's dick before he's coming fast and hard, squeezing his eyes shut and breathing harshly. Korse kisses him softer now, licking into his mouth, and Party makes a quiet noise, and clutches at Korse's chest as he finishes inside Party.

Party can smell something like cologne on Korse's skin, but sharper somehow. It smells good, sort of like home. Korse presses a kiss to his hair, and Party's throat aches. The shame of it all makes him want to be sick. Just Korse's touch hurts him more than the torture ever could, searing his skin, leaving a residue of heat and guilt, and Party hates that all he wants is to lean into it and burn himself. There's a dark mottled bruise on his collarbone, fresh and sensitive, and Korse presses his thumb onto it, smiling. Party shudders, and tucks his face into Korse's shoulder. "I miss you," Party rasps. His mouth tastes like dirt and salt.

"Darling, I'm right here," Korse says, gentle but still distant and cold. He's only a shadow of the man he used to be. Party wants to live inside the shadow. It's all he's got—it's all he'll ever have.


End file.
